(_From Clavering’s Autobiography._)
I saw Sir Egerton Brydges in the streets, was introduced to him, and
recalled to his mind our rencontre at Mr. Carter’s at Deal, thirty years
ago. He walked feebly, was lame, and had been confined to his bed for
many months the preceding winter. He was pale, apparently grief-worn,
and had a most grave and melancholy countenance, and languid look; but
now and then flashed, both with eyes and words. He amused himself with
printing privately, and distributing among his friends a variety of
fragments. He complained bitterly of some London agents, who had cheated
him most enormously, and whom he was bringing before the Court of
Chancery. His common acquaintance complained that he was too grave for
them, and that he was deficient in wit and point. They said he was “all
sober sadness,” and that he had romantic views of life, and did not know
the human character. I had not sufficient conversation with him to judge
of this. He was intimate with d’Invernois, who spoke highly of him. He
had certainly none of our Irish vivacity, and fulness of imagery. He was
rather querulous and prolix, than piquant, and declaimed rather than
said sharp things. I said to him, “Why do you not endeavour, in your
writings, to accommodate yourself more to the public taste?” He
answered, in despair, “I cannot--I have no turn that way. I know the
value of the bon-mot, the sarcasm, and the epigram; but I have no
ability that way.” And it seemed true; he _had_ no ability that way.
When the old lineal Duke of Norfolk died--I think it was in 1778--the
pomp of that mighty house was much abased. His collateral successor, Mr.
Howard, of Graystock, was a man of mean and intemperate habits, which
were inherited by his son, the late duke, then known by the name of Lord
Surry, and who made himself conspicuous as a Whig, and by electioneering
contests and intrigues. With this last I was familiar, but soon saw that
I could put no trust in him. I wrote many political squibs at his
desire--not worth preserving; he was a man of a good deal of spleen,
personal as well as political. Charles Fox flattered him, that he might
have his aid to the party; but he did not love or respect him. He
married an Irishwoman for his first wife. I think his mother’s name was
Brockholes. It was amusing to see him in contest with the late Lord
Abingdon, whose power of speaking in the House (whatever mental
eccentricities he might have) was so great, that many preferred his
eloquence even to Lord Chatham’s. The duke was never at rest: he always
had some jobs in hand: by which he often put himself into pecuniary
embarrassment. His face was very much like that of Cardinal Howard,
Temp. Car. II., of whom there are so many engraved portraits. He prided
himself upon a common dress, very much like that of a yeoman, or rather
country schoolmaster. It was generally a grey coat, with black buttons,
and black waistcoat. I once asked him to use his interest for a relation
of mine; he readily promised--but never attempted to perform. He had a
personal antipathy to Pitt and Lord Grenville; and one of the constant
subjects of his jokes and raillery was the Grenville pedigree. A Mr.
Dallaway, a clergyman, was his private secretary, as earl-marshal; with
whom I once dined at the duke’s table; a large, heavy-looking man, who,
I was told, had written several books; but I presume he is deceased, as
I have not seen his name announced for a long while.
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